


i came, i saw, i conquered

by katarasvevo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hades and Persephone, Friends to Lovers, M/M, modern-ish elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarasvevo/pseuds/katarasvevo
Summary: It’s a terrible idea, falling in love with the god of springtime. (But Miya Atsumu, the lord of the underworld, does so anyway.)
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, minor sunaosa - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 188





	i came, i saw, i conquered

What they all say about the Underworld is that it is a neither-nor of extremes—made of life and death, built from an array of monochrome shades. 

What they never tell you is  _ why _ it is the seam between two states of being. People always get the answer wrong. They expect it has to do with wraiths, monsters. They expect it has to do with all the scary crap that, in truth, hasn’t been around since the reaper of the gates came sailing in on his merry boat and isolated most of the horrors from the rest of the realm. 

The real answer is none of those things.

The truth is far, far worse.

“Osamu. Please,” Atsumu whines, prepared to go on his knees it means Osamu will relieve him from the torture that is the Grievance Hearing.

Osamu looks up from where he is poring over dusty tomes. His gaze is frigid, and his mouth is in a set line. It is already obvious what his answer will be.  _ Atsumu, it’s your fucking job.  _

_ Atsumu, dad is way too easy on you.  _

_ Atsumu, it’s time you stop being an irresponsible prick. _

So of course, Atsumu does not get what he wants.

And of course, he is forced to attend the Grievance Hearing, which is the very definition of a slow, slow death. Clients come and go, minor gods airing out their frustrations. They squabble over petty affairs, discuss trade legislation, talk about issues that don’t even concern their areas of jurisdiction. It’s like no one has better things to occupy their time with.

Osamu would fit the role better. He acts, sounds, and even looks the part—always dressed in damn grayscale. But it is not him that’s lord,  _ no. _

As expected, the Grievance Hearing is a nightmare, every single moment of it.

It’s clear that they’re all apprehensive of Atsumu, maybe a little unsure.

They look at him like he is odd, like they expect him to lash out, start a fight. They look at him like he is strange, wicked, separate from the rest.

(They see the crown on his brow, see past him, and maybe they are right. Maybe it’s all he is.)

Finally, the meeting adjourns. It is to the surprise of absolutely no one that Atsumu is the first to leave.

The whispers continue. And, of course, so do the complaints.

(But. Whatever. Screw them.)

* * *

The meeting puts him in an incredibly Bad Mood, so he retreats to the realm boundary, a place that has always been a sort of haven for him.

He hasn’t gone here in a while, but it’s great as ever.

The Overworld is beautiful from where he stands. It is beautiful, in the way watercolour paintings are—all faded, idyllic colours, the skies sunset-stained and lovely. 

It is beautiful, in all the ways the Underworld is not.

(Built from life, and imbued with it.)

Osamu could have a place there, Atsumu thinks. After all, he is not tied to this realm, like Atsumu is. He could go, find a home amongst those damnably interminable fields of green. But Atsumu knows his brother, knows Osamu will never leave him, not like this.

The warmth of spring continues to linger in the air. A second longer, and he might actually lose his mind.

And so Atsumu turns to leave. He gets as far as the final demarcation line when It Happens.

Atsumu finds his steps slowing, halting. His head turns.

Once, when Atsumu was little, a very young god in an old world, he saw what he would later come to know as a starfall. Darkness, broken by silver and red and gold flame, every colour of the world burning at its core. It stole his breath away, took his voice. Nothing else really compared, afterwards.

This, though, eclipses what he saw that night.

A pair of hands, pressed to the earth. Life assembling itself from colour, vein by vein, breath by breath. And, in the middle of it all, a boy with hair the soft orange of a sunrise, his motions more fluid than water.

Birth, growth, and life.

(Everything Atsumu is not.)

Atsumu does not realize he has been staring for far too long until the boy’s head lifts. And their eyes are actually locking in place.

The boy pauses in mid-action. Atsumu blinks, having regained his senses.

“Shit,” he blurts out to no one in particular, and it is only when he’s back at home, in the cool shade of the palace, that he registers what he’s done.

He. Ran. Away.

(Coward, he can practically hear Osamu telling him.)

* * *

“Kentaro from Section B3 is once again asking for your financial support, Your Highness,” Sakusa says to him dryly, dropping down a stack of forms on his desk.

To think it was starting to become a good day.

Atsumu slumps down over the paperwork.

It is not a surprise he gets nothing done, much too distracted to do anything else.

* * *

Without rhyme or reason, Atsumu finds himself returning the next day. And then the day after that.

Likewise, the boy is there. The next day, and the day after that, too.

Atsumu is not the type to shy away, but he does keep himself at a distance. He watches from afar, tucks himself away—out of sight, out of mind—because there’s no telling what might happen if he actually allowed himself a closer look. Probably kill everything, he thinks sourly. 

(Once, the sun herald sent him a rare flower that apparently bloomed once every century, and it died within two seconds of his touch. He never got sent anything like that again.)

The boy continues on with his routine, seemingly oblivious to Atsumu’s presence. But then a week later, he singles Atsumu out, and Atsumu realizes he really wasn’t as unobtrusive as he thought he was.

“You know, you’re not as good at hiding as you think you are,” the boy says serenely.

Embarrassed, Atsumu lets the glamour drop. He materializes just at the edge of the field.

The boy’s face is cunningly knowing. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” 

“Well, I didn’t want to scare you off, or something,” Atsumu scoffs, running a hand through his hair.

Evidently, it’s the wrong thing to say. Because the boy just starts… laughing. Like Atsumu isn’t some big bad scary head of a death-filled realm, like he’s just another gawking village idiot.

And oh, right. That’s exactly why.

He doesn’t know who Atsumu is.

“Please, it’d take a lot more to scare me away,” the boy chirps, standing up so that he can make his way over to Atsumu. 

The boy draws nearer. And it is not lost on Atsumu, the way his motions are perhaps a little like dancing or music or both. He walks with surety. Like he’s lived his whole life with his head up, back straight, in spite of any odds.

And up close, Atsumu notices two things. One: his eyes are a warm shade of brown dripping with gold. Two: a faint scattering of freckles dusts the bridge of his nose, and the curve of his fair cheeks.

The boy says, “I’m Shouyou, by the way.” He points an accusing finger. “You’ve been spying on me so long, it was getting weird.” 

“You call that spying?” Atsumu arches an eyebrow.

“Yes, because it totally was.”

“Have you ever heard of the word observing?” Atsumu tries to keep his voice patient.

They trade jabs for a bit. It’s nothing serious. And then Shouyou asks him for his name, because Shouyou gave away his own so freely, which means it’s only right for Atsumu to do the same.

Most know him only as the lord of the dead. Still, Atsumu calculates the risk. “I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so trusting in the first place,” Atsumu says, wanting to goad him a little.

“Well, I gave it anyway, so now you have to tell me yours,” the boy continues, his face oddly,  _ oddly _ bright. Warm.

Later on, Atsumu will look back, to understand why he gave it at that moment. Maybe it was the earnest look on Shouyou’s face. Maybe it was the all-encompassing nature of his magic—the power of the sun and earth, incalculably interwoven into his motions.

Or maybe because it felt like this: Freedom. A weight on his chest, removed. A held breath, expunged.

For now, he notices a third thing: the boy—Shouyou—has dimples when he smiles.

Half-moon indents, winking at him from a warm face.

(Nobody has ever smiled at him like this before.)

“I think we’re going to be very good friends, Atsumu-san,” Shouyou proclaims, and the brilliance of his laughter sinks into Atsumu’s veins.

Etches a home in his heart.

* * *

Their next few meetings are spent talking. Every sunset, Atsumu returns, and Shouyou is there, up to his elbows with dirt. Shouyou talks, gives pieces of himself away, and is every bit the chatterbox he promised he’d be.

One day, Shouyou fashions a flower out of sunlight, as a gift for Atsumu.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Atsumu says, but doesn’t elaborate for obvious reasons.

Shouyou is insistent, however. Unrelenting. And so the flower trades hands. Atsumu prepares for the worst.

Instead, the flower remains whole, alive in his palm.

Miraculous.

* * *

The days pass by. Atsumu’s life feels like it has been altered in more ways than one. Simultaneously split into two different directions.

There was the Before. And then there is the After. It’s silly sounding, but the thing is, it’s not far away from the truth.

Atsumu falls asleep during meetings, gets his work done as ruthlessly quick as possible. Suna has begun to observe that even though his complaining has increased, his efficiency has begun to travel a line parallel to that.

“It’s like I don’t know him anymore,” Suna says from where he’s idly playing with Osamu’s hair, like the gross beings that they are.

“Shut the fuck up, I was always this great.” Atsumu scowls. It is completely on them if they aren’t able to discern incipient greatness. 

Osamu shoots him a look from over his book. “You’re in a rush,” he observes coolly. “What’s so special that you absolutely have to leave? Sulking petulantly on your throne because the market didn’t have your favourite brand of ice cream?”

“None of your business,” Atsumu says flippantly, his shadows warping the air so that he can get the hell out of here. “And by the way, get a room. There’s children here.”

A small, wide-eyed nymph looks up from her task. Atsumu gestures vaguely. “See?”

The nymph bursts into tears and runs away. Osamu and Suna roll their eyes. 

“Oh, great, now you’ve just insulted her.” Osamu shoots him a look of disgust. “That mouth of yours is truly a wonder, Atsumu. Truly.”

Atsumu tries not to look at them sitting so comfortably next to each other. Suna’s hand in Osamu’s hair, the action idle and affectionate. It grates at an odd place somewhere in his chest.

(Somewhere close to the heart.)

“Whatever, I’m out,” Atsumu shoves his hands into his pockets. 

The air alters, warps, shifts. There is a feeling like being pulled taut, and then finally,  _ finally,  _ he is here.

At the place where he most wants to be.

Shouyou is waiting for him just at the edge. He’s no longer wearing that scruffy chiton he’d been working in. Instead, he’s clad in modern garb. A cream-coloured sweater underneath a graphic T-shirt, and light-wash jeans. There’s a mint-green baseball cap on his head. He looks dressed to go to an outing with friends.

“Hey!” Shouyou greets him. Atsumu thinks: not a day that has gone by where he isn’t smiling. “Figured we’d go somewhere today.”

“Aww, are you asking me out, Shouyou-kun?” Atsumu croons, feeling overdressed in his ridiculous outfit.

“Of course!” Shouyou says, and Atsumu looks at him with a jolt. “A change of scenery would be nice. I didn’t think you’d like watching me pull weeds and do the same thing every time we met. Stuff like that gets old.”

Oh, right. Atsumu wills his cheeks to cool.

He stops himself from adding: I don’t mind anything that you do.

“Plus, I’m close to being found out,” Shouyou whispers conspiratorially. “I’m, uh, actually not supposed to be here. I’ve been sneaking out.” His expression turns sheepish.

Atsumu looks at him curiously. Assesses the situation. Shouyou is a god whose very essence radiates springtime. He reads like an open book, untouched by the spoils of the world. He is not ignorant, but can be seemingly sheltered at times. He has been practicing magic at the boundary, which is conveniently unclaimed by solar court jurisdiction. 

There’s a missing piece to this puzzle. But it  _ is _ there, just out-of-reach. Elusive.

“Didn’t know you had it in you to be bad. I’m flattered to know that I was worth it,” Atsumu says, and if he sounds coy, well—it is neither here nor there.

Shouyou tugs at his sleeve. “You should change the outfit. We’re not going to a funeral.”

“What, right now?” Atsumu huffs.

“No, I’ll take you to the Overworld. And whether you like it or not, we’re getting matching shirts.  _ Matching shirts,”  _ Shouyou says, and just like that, hanging out becomes routine.

* * *

More than routine, actually.

Their first official hangout at the Overworld was just the beginning. It is quick to become a major theme.

Truthfully, Atsumu isn’t banned from the Overworld, pretty much free to come and go as he pleases. It’s just that he isn’t supposed to stay, because of his responsibilities. Obligations.

And frankly, he’s made it a point to not linger overlong, because it’s a reminder of what he’s never really had.

There are instances in time where his appearance is unfortunately mandatory—very much dependent on the state of worldly affairs. (When there are wars, the numbers are bad. Likewise, when mortals get their shit together, it’s all good.)

The Overworld is something Atsumu never made the time for, in the past. 

But, similar to the turn of the seasons, things change.

And it is during his random excursions with Shouyou that he slowly learns the name of the emotion building up in his chest. 

And starts hoarding the facts he’s learned about him.

One of Shouyou’s favourite places is a hole-in-the-wall that sells amazing breakfast food. He’s a fan of watching volleyball games, likes playing the sport even more, but never had much opportunity due to some circumstance in his life. There’s a faint scar on on the crook of his neck, from an accident he had during a visit to the undersea court. Shouyou turns the prettiest shade of pink when he blushes, and when he smiles at Atsumu—just like this, just like so—the whole world fades to white noise. This newfound feeling is bubbly, giddy, a liminal space between trepidation and wanting and ecstasy. Sometimes he holds Atsumu’s hand, and the ground beneath Atsumu will seem like it has slipped away, but then their linked hands serve as a reminder, an anchor, and he forgets to fear the fall.

The details settle like a brand, permanent on his skin, heart, soul.

And Atsumu finds that he does not mind at all.

* * *

They get closer, and closer.

They’re at some sort of festival, watching a concert starring a group of naiads, when a sort of realization reaches crystalline definition.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a singular moment, or even a moment at all.

Because if you asked him now, he wouldn’t be able to say. If you asked him later, he would give you the same answer.

It was just a natural culmination, plain and simple.

* * *

Spring fully melts into summer. Atsumu is recalled to the capital for the new god of spring’s recognition ceremony. He isn’t much aware of the specifics, but he’s heard the rumours. They say the new god is fairly young—similar to Atsumu. The goddess of springtime is overprotective of her son but it is time, she proclaims, for him to handle responsibility.

The gods gather at the Hall of the Summit, and they are a sea of brilliant, powerful faces. 

At one point, Atsumu watches a boy with eyes the colour of a lightning storm confront a very frightened-looking serving girl, about the location of some missing god. The girl babbles incoherently, before bolting. The boy clenches his fist.

“Shit, where could that idiot be,” he murmurs more to himself than anyone else.

Someone calls out, “Kageyama! I think Yachi and Sugawara know where he is!” and then the boy Kageyama is taking off, anger in his stride.

Atsumu looks away. 

Moments later, everyone is settling into their rightful places. The ceremony kicks off to the tune of trumpets—a theatrical flourish. Atsumu tries to pay attention. But it is shaping up to be an insurmountable task. Not when he is thinking of something else. Someone else.

And then… this is when it happens.

One moment, Atsumu is examining the whorls of gold in the ceiling, and then the next he is seeing Shouyou walking up to the dais, a crown of burnished laurel leaves gleaming atop his head like a starburst.

Wait—what.

Atsumu blinks. The image is still there. He blinks again. No. He is definitely not imagining things.

Atsumu stares, the realization crashing into him with the impact of a meteor shower.

Shouyou’s magic. The vitality he emanated. The day they first met, life blossoming from the ground. Springtime, sunlight, intertwined.

Atsumu knew he had to be a spring god. But he didn’t know that Shouyou was  _ the  _ God of Spring himself.

It is a freeze-frame moment.

“Hinata! Congrats!” someone from the crowd shouts out somewhere towards the end. Shouyou waves back, and Atsumu can only look.

Moments, seconds pass. And then Shouyou’s gaze is honing in on him, and then Shouyou is rushing towards him, grinning. The action draws eyes, mouths, heads—whispers quick to trade tongues.

“Atsumu-san,” he is saying, “I didn’t know you’d be here!” It’s apparent it has yet to dawn on him regarding who Atsumu is. 

What Atsumu is.

There is movement at the corner of Atsumu’s eye. An ominous sound gathers, like a storm imminent. The goddess of springtime is rising to her feet, shock palpable in the flicker of her aura.

“Hinata, no way. That’s the guy that you like?” A deity Atsumu recognizes as the god of thieves speaks out. “Wow, you should have told me you were banging the ruler of the underworld!”

At this, Shouyou’s eyes fill with understanding, as he takes in the obsidian armour. The crown fashioned out of bone and charred meteorite. The insignia bevelled over Atsumu’s heart.

“You’re the god of death,” Shouyou whispers, and there is only reverence in his tone.

The god of thieves is promptly reprimanded for rudeness by an ashen-haired deity. The goddess of springtime looks beyond murderous. The tension that has been building up breaks, like shattered glass.

And of course, chaos follows.

(No, Atsumu would not like to elaborate on the details.)

* * *

Fuck is the only appropriate word for the situation.

“You… what?” Osamu says. His voice is so surprised, so frigid, that it causes a nearby wraith to scuttle away hurriedly.

“Stop scaring away the servants, Samu, or maybe I’ll be their new favourite,” Atsumu says, smiling thinly. “And you wouldn’t want that, being second-best. Right?”

“Stop trying to change the subject.” Osamu shuts his book firmly. “Because diplomatically, politically speaking, you’ve just opened up a colossal can of worms.”

Atsumu snaps, “What do you fuckin’ want me to say?  _ Hey, I’m so sorry that I kind of fell in love with the God of Springtime himself, it was an accident, anyway, I’m going to leave him alone now, problem fucking solved!” _

So, yes. It was a bad day.

Shouyou’s mother was livid, to say the least.

If she hated him before, she loathes Atsumu now. (Their history goes back only a few years, but it is a long story. Atsumu almost wishes he hadn’t been so much of a little shit when he was newly crowned.)

“Nothing. Never mind,” Osamu says, his tone suddenly soft, and he wouldn’t get it. It’s Atsumu on the damn throne, not him. Fuck, Atsumu hates that throne. He should have it thrown away and replaced with a bouncy castle.

Atsumu folds his arms over his chest, and just like that he is little again.

If only it were that easy to go back in time. Back to the days where the only thing that mattered was fun and games. 

A shift. And then there is Osamu’s hand, warm on his shoulder. 

“I just want to be happy,” Atsumu murmurs, tired.

“I know,” his brother says.

“I love him,” Atsumu adds pathetically.

Osamu sighs. “I know.”

* * *

One, two, three weeks pass by. They don’t see each other. After that fiasco, Atsumu assumes Shouyou has been placed under house-arrest.

The alternative is too painful to consider.

Atsumu slips into his usual routine. He does his necessary administrative duties, handles the emissaries with all the tactfulness he can summon, and Osamu finally agrees to attend Grievance Hearings for once.

His life during that time-frame is rather uneventful, needless to say.

A game of waiting, moping, waiting.

Week four into his misery, news arrives in the form of a letter. It is branded with the mark of the messenger god—an owl-shaped seal. _ I NEED TO TALK TO YOU,  _ the letter reads.

Atsumu’s mouth twitches, wistful. He can almost hear the words.

* * *

Here is the part of the story where Atsumu could’ve gone the angst-filled road, avoiding Shouyou and letting things implode between them, before finally reconciling.

It is how it could have gone.

But it is not at all what happens. 

Atsumu is at the grand hall, doomed to look over the horribly ancient scrolls Suna said he had no choice but to read, when suddenly Sakusa is strolling in like he has better places to be, announcing that there’s a visitor.

“If it’s that damn forest nymph again, tell him to fuck off,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa rolls his eyes and spins on his heel to leave. Atsumu turns his head, an expletive already on his tongue, but then a boy is walking in with the biggest grin on his face, and—

Atsumu squints. “Shouyou?” he says. 

That weightless feeling returns. Swells in the space between his every heartbeat.

“Yeah, I told you I’d be coming, didn’t I?” Shouyou says, and his face is sheepish, and there’s his hand on the back of his neck.

“Well.. it would’ve been nice if you’d specified a time.” Atsumu probably looks like a mess. There was no time for preparation.

Shouyou feigns sadness. “So...you don’t want to see me?” 

“Of course I do, I was just surprised that you were here so soon.” 

Shouyou’s grin changes, morphs into something softer. “Surprise, then?”

Atsumu moves towards him, and then they are both heading outside. Night has already fallen, bruise-coloured and star-speckled. There is the moon in the sky, transmuted into a slender smile by the clouds. The ringed city spreads to world’s end in the distance, winking with a hundred thousand lights.

“How’d you convince your mom to let you visit me?” Atsumu says.

Because, like, Shouyou’s mom had been a force of nature, indeed. It’s not a sight you can easily forget.

An embarrassed expression forms on Shouyou’s face. “Well, you know how it got. Pretty crazy. Be glad you don’t know the half of it. There was a lot of shouting back at home.” He makes a thoughtful sound. “But then I told her that she couldn’t stop me. Said I wasn’t a little kid anymore, so she should stop bossing me around. So … ta-da.”

Atsumu takes in a sharp inhale. “She could still drag you back.”

“Sshh, don’t give her any ideas.”

They talk, and talk, and talk. It feels so profoundly right. Atsumu wants this, wants  _ him,  _ more than anything he’s ever wanted in his miserable life.

Atsumu turns to look at Shouyou, at the blinding brilliance of his features in the moonlight.

“So what happens next?” Shouyou says, and their faces are so close, Atsumu thinks he maybe sees the flash-end of a comet reflected in his gaze.

The words “You’re too beautiful to be here” slip out of Atsumu’s mouth. He didn’t mean to sound serious, but it’s only after the fact that he realizes he’d been achingly, hoarsely gentle.

The corner of Shouyou’s mouth lifts. “So dramatic,” he scoffs, but his tone is soft.

“No, really. I mean, you do know what they’ll all say. It’s obvious.” Atsumu’s smile turns twisted. “Oh look, it’s the god of the underworld, the demon lord who stole away the heart of spring. He’s a bastard who will hopefully meet a bad end for corrupting a soul as pure as yours.”

“Sounds like a play I’d pay to watch.” Shouyou laughs, unfazed.

Silence falls for a moment. And then it is immediately broken.

“Well. Come to think of it, I’d let you,” Shouyou says.

“Let me … what?”

Shouyou grins. “Corrupt me.”

Atsumu’s heart gives a fond squeeze. “Very funny, Shouyou-kun,” he drawls.

“No, seriously.” Shouyou pokes him in the side.

“Who’s corrupting who now?” Atsumu says, and then they’re both fooling around, Shouyou pushing him onto the grass.

Laughter trails off, fades. The northern star rests on the curve of Shouyou’s shoulder. Shouyou was made for the world of the living, _ but. _

He does not seem so out-of-place here.

(Summertime, springtime, noontime.)

“I really want to be with you,” Shouyou says softly.

Atsumu’s gaze is steady. He says, “So be with me,” and then he is drawing their mouths together until there is only this:

The heat of Shouyou’s mouth against his own. 

The warmth of skin-against-skin.

The burn of starlight, sunlight, moonlight in his blood.

Shouyou kisses him, filling him with life, and impossibly, improbably, flowers start to bloom.

Atsumu thinks: maybe just maybe this particular story will get to have a happily ever after.

(It does.)

I love you, Shouyou will say much later on, into the space of his mouth. And then they’ll draw apart, Atsumu grinning wickedly as he says it back, their lips stained red like the insides of a pomegranate.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I know I wrote this story because of the gratuitous celestial bs ;..:


End file.
